


Fortune Depends

by eruthiel



Category: Thick of It (UK)
Genre: 2010s, British Politics, Explicit Language, Future Fic, Gen, Scheming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 16,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eruthiel/pseuds/eruthiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With just a few weeks to go before the 2015 general election, Leader of the Opposition Dan Miller is relying on his press officer, Ollie Reeder, to see him through. Unfortunately, Ollie is relying on his personal assistant, Sam Cassidy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adevyish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adevyish/gifts).



> Big thanks and much Christmassy love to everyone who contributed to this, especially the excellent [Kainosite](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kainosite) (without whom it never would have seen the light of day) and [Boleyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/boleyn) (who very generously agreed to check it over at the last minute). I hope you enjoy!

_0600 hours_

The electric light is unflattering to say the least. Sam Cassidy looks into her bathroom mirror and sees dull eyes staring back at her, set in a face too lined to be her own. Her forehead and everything to the left of her nose is already made up - nothing too audacious, lest she become more than a silent part of the scenery - the rest is bare. She rubs foundation into her skin with practised movements.

In a minute she's going to call Ollie, if he doesn't get there first. She's left her phone next to the sink in an attempt to resign herself to this necessity, but it hasn't really worked; she still feels a new weight sink in her stomach every time she sees it out of the corner of her eye, every time she hears in her mind the panicked sound of her boss' voice. It's not that Sam dislikes Ollie, in fact she finds him rather endearing, but she can't stop thinking of him as a third-year who's accidentally been appointed headmaster. He makes her uneasy. Still, just about everything makes Sam uneasy these days, so maybe that's unfair.

She finishes with her make-up, taking longer than necessary to store it all away in her handbag, then rounds on the phone. _This is your job, woman, for god's sake._ She calls Ollie with one tap of the screen and double-checks her reflection while waiting for him to pick up. When at last he does so, it's with a barked "Hello?" that tells her all she needs to know about the day ahead.

"Morning, Ollie," says Sam, with as much patience as she can muster. "Just wondering if you still want those new immigration notes for Dan, the ones you sent me last night."

Ollie is patently not having a good day, which is impressive, considering that it's only six in the morning. "Of course I want the fucking notes," he mutters. "I'm hardly going to change my fucking mind about them overnight, am I?"

"That's exactly what you did the night before, so I just thought I'd better check, that's all."

"Yeah, well, thanks a lot, Sam, but as it happens I'm perfectly capable of doing my job without - well, not without your assistance, that's what you're paid for - look, bring the notes, okay?"

Sam taps the sink with her fingernails and sighs. "Okay. Is there anything else?"

"Yes. Yes, hang on a minute..." There are background noises of some kind, though Sam prefers not to speculate. It sounds like a toaster being excavated with a fork. "Apparently Julius Nicholson's having second thoughts about the hashtag for tonight," says Ollie after a few seconds of this, having managed to avoid electrocution. "He's left it bloody late in the game to say so. Obviously that's got to be nipped in the balls ASAP."

"What kind of second thoughts?"

"Oh, you know, the usual Nicholson Own-Brand Bullshit." Further rattling accompanies his explanation. "Taste The Difference, the difference being that his ideas are the intellectual equivalent of mouldy Mini Cheddars to my five-star fucking ratatouille. If Julius had his way, Dan'd be out there in fucking cricket whites and a bowler hat, so keep them as far away from each other as James Corden's nipples, yeah?"

This is fine by Sam. Charming as he is, she never really trusted Julius, even before what he did to Malcolm; she'd be happier if he'd never got involved in the campaign, though of course with Ollie being what he is, they need all hands to the pump. You'd be surprised at how few willing pairs of hands are left in the party that don't have shit all over them, but Julius' are among them. "Of course. So, we're sticking with 'danisourman'?"

There's a smash that signifies, in Sam's imagination at least, the accidental demise of a toaster. "Fucknuggets!" Ollie groans, adding, " _The_ man, Sam, Dan is _the_ man!"

"Sorry..."

"Everyone knows he's _our_ man; that's not the point. We've had the t-shirts printed now anyway. It'll be fine so long as Julius keeps his nose out." The sneer is clearly audible in Ollie's voice. "Since he went out of his way to accelerate the schedule for this week, I've got about fifteen seconds to think of something fresh to round off Dan's PR rehabilitation thing on _Today._ Listen, Sam, I've got to go..."

"See you at work," says Sam mildly, but Ollie has already hung up. She puts down some food for her cat, pulls on her shoes, makes sure she has her aspirin and locks the front door behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

_0700 hours_

Everyone who's anyone knows Sam, even if they're not aware of it. For nearly a decade she was the acceptable face of Malcolm Tucker, and there aren't many people in Westminster who didn't find her an obstacle or antidote to his wrath at some time or another, but she is, by design, forgettable. If they ever thought of her as more than wallpaper, they might wonder what she's still doing here in the world of Ollie Reeders and Dan Millers and Julius Nicholsons, now that Malcolm has left. Certainly, there are better-paid and less hectic jobs she could be pursuing.

But as she sits on a train and sips her first coffee of the morning, Sam entertains no thoughts of the private sector. In part it's force of habit and a fondness for the familiar that stops her from branching out. Anyway, the way she sees it, why give up now, having devoted so much to the cause already? If Malcolm had the choice, would he be scurrying away just because they could be doing better in the polls? He'd sooner hang, but he doesn't have that luxury. For Sam, it is the thought of all his work unravelling, all his sacrifice coming to nothing which keeps her from turning her back on the rabble of tools and malcontents which constitutes their party - and yes, it is _their_ party now, the noble vessel for which they laboured together whenever it needed wresting from the grip of pirates like Steve Fleming or Nicola Murray. Someone has to hold down the fort, right?

Whenever they talk, he tells her to take a holiday. But he isn't her boss any more, and she does so want him to be proud of her.

Yes, Sam knows exactly why she's still here, but she'll never tell because she'll never get asked. So long as it's enough to sustain her, she'll keep doing her job with stoic competence, an obedient spectre at Ollie's shoulder until the day she is no longer needed. She has her reasons. And with her level of experience, who's ever going to object?

Her Blackberry inbox is full of journalists asking why their non-issues are being silenced in favour of the debate. Rather than sending out a group response along the lines of 'because you are to this as single-celled amoeba are to the dinosaurs,' she starts conscientiously laying out the false apologies and reassurances that are her stock in trade. There's nothing from Julius, which is telling, given his practice these last few months of sending everyone updated versions of the election strategy checklist at least once a day. He's got an active mind - too active for Ollie's liking - but he's not too caught up in novelties to know when to stop drawing attention to himself.

Taking a break from fielding irrelevancies, Sam has a scroll through the _Guardian_ website's anticipatory pre-debate foam. Almost at once she finds herself confronted with the latest instalment of the adventures of Steve Bell's infamous caricature, Dandroid. Today, it seems, the world's most high-tech politician is coming on to the Deputy Prime Minister with a series of colourful baking metaphors. Sam is unsurprised that she doesn't understand why, but pleased with herself for at least being able to decipher _what._

Ollie's stupid 'danistheman' hashtag will be launched on Dan's official Twitter half an hour before the debate begins, in order to wrong-foot the coalition parties and keep them from thinking up anything equally sizzling in time to compete. If it's trending in the UK by the end of the night, the scheme and indeed the debate itself will be considered a success. Sam checks what it has to contend with. Some popstar has done something worthy of note, or possibly died; Sam hasn't had time to give a toss about that stuff since she was a teenager. Also making the list are a superhero film and the marker for a game of 'advertising slogans that sound better with poultry.'

Sam glares at the screen in the hope that it will resolve itself into something more agreeable, but it doesn't, so she goes back to answering her mail.


	3. Chapter 3

_0800 hours_

A small dent has been made in the morning's more routine tasks by the time Sam sits down at her desk. She's tracked down Ollie and forced him to stand still for long enough to hand him a cup of coffee, not to mention the sheer weight of his post today - two newly-published books for his reading pleasure, 'gifts' from the authors. She drops them next to her computer keyboard. One, by far the smaller, contains the sum of Ben Swain's thoughts on what the party should learn from its stint in opposition, and the inside cover is signed with a sycophantic note of nauseating length. Sam snorts. The other, a half-tonne of print and glossy photo pages, is yet another biography of Malcolm Tucker.

Without opening it, Sam looks down at the cover for a while. The photograph shows Malcolm, not scowling during the inquiry or shoving his way into a courtroom like all the others, but watching from the sidelines of a press conference (an early one of Tom's, by the colour of his hair) and pressing a pen against his mouth, deep in thought. As photographs of Malcolm go, this one is perhaps among the most flattering. Sam sighs and flips it open to read the inscription.

_Ollie,_

_Don't make the same mistakes!_

_— Marianne_

She closes it again and puts it under the desk with Ben's book, making a mental note to actually read it once the election's over and things have calmed down a bit. The only reason she never read any of the earlier efforts is that they just didn't seem very well-researched, that's all. It's nothing to do with her personal involvement in the events described; that would be silly.

It's not even nine yet. She plugs in her headphones and sorts through the remainder of Ollie's mail while listening to Dan work his magic on _Today_.

"No, I wouldn't agree with your use of the word 'spin' there. Like anyone, we need to have a system in place for communicating to the world what it is we're all about. There's nothing underhand or manipulative about that. All organisations do it and all individuals do it, and if we weren't keeping you all updated on what the opposition is up to, I think frankly you'd be a bit suspicious of us."

"Yes... yes, I appreciate the need for effective PR, spin, call it what you like. I think what everyone's been particularly struck by, though, is the extent to which your party has embraced the potential of new media for, well, evangelical purposes..."

The patronising softening of the voice which is Dan's major vice comes to the fore. "Oh, do we have to call it new media?"

"What would you call it, then?"

"I would call it a two-way street. What -"

"Explain what you mean by that."

"I _am_ explaining, Justin. What I love about the internet is the way it facilitates a dialogue, not just a - a monologue. There are as many points of view as there are people, and anything that helps us to weave those opinions into a cohesive message, just as society should be weaved together in the interests of everyone, I think that's a good thing."

"Right, but you're actually a relative latecomer to all this, aren't you? I mean, there was no official Labour Party app when Malcolm Tucker was running the show; Nicola Murray was never involved in the updating of her own twitter account when she was leader; there were none of these accusations about buying 'likes' on facebook." Dan makes a humourless noise to the tune of 'God, I wish you wouldn't mention that.' "What's going on, then, is this all Ollie Reeder's influence? Is it something that's come from you? You're probably aware of cartoonists' tendency to depict you as a robot..."

"Yes, I have noticed that, as a matter of fact. It's very amusing. I think the point here is just that times are changing, or I suppose times have changed, and we've simply done our best to adapt along with today's means of communication. Because if you're not there, if you haven't got that will to evolve and move forward, then you get left behind. And we have always been the party of progress, as you know."

"Well, just before we move on, I'm being told your team have a phrase that they think sums up your approach for tonight. Care to give us an exclusive preview, or are we going to have to wait for the big reveal?"

Sam's witnessed second-hand too many ministerial cockups down the years to be particularly phased by this one, if that is indeed what it is. "There's no big reveal," says Dan, who has never been prone to media gaffes, "all we've done is settled on an official hashtag for people on Twitter to show their support. It's 'danistheman.' That's a reference to me, of course. So if you want to start letting people know who you're rooting for, there you have an easy, instant way to do it."

"Thank you, Dan Miller, leader of the opposition. We'll be hearing more from you, as well as the Prime Minister and the Deputy Prime Minister, in the first leaders' debate tonight at eight."

Yanking her headphones from her ears, Sam mutters a curse and shoots off a text to Ollie. 'Why has dan announced tag?'

The reply comes almost at once. 'To fuck jn.'

Sam rolls her eyes. Of course, far better to butcher your own plans than run the risk of adapting them to allow for other points of view. Not that the idea was an inspiring one to begin with, and certainly if anyone could improve it, that person wasn't Uncle Julius, he whose cultural sensibilities resided so deep in the past that he thought Oscar Pistorius was a Batman villain. Still, the whole point of releasing it so late in the day was to create an illusion of organic spontaneity, of immediacy. Now it will have all day to build up and fade away again, in which time Emma Messinger will have fashioned something cooler and sexier and had it tattooed across JB's ugly horse face. All those hours of brainstorming, wasted. Typical.


	4. Chapter 4

_0900 hours_

It's now gone nine and Ollie hasn't sat down at his desk once. He's out fighting the backlash against Dan's announcement - backlash which is composed mainly of scorn and derision, alongside accusations of missing the point. The point, as Sam could have told and indeed did tell Ollie several times, is that if there is space for a phrase like that then it will evolve naturally, and shouldn't be dictated from on high by the very person it's describing. That's not a dialogue, that's just propaganda. Anyway, it's too late to do anything about it now. She double-checks last night's immigration notes and is in the process of sending off to the Home Office for clarification on some important dates, when her phone buzzes to announce the arrival of a text from Julius.

Sam sighs. She'd wondered how long it would be before he proposed one of his little chats. She replies to explain that Ollie is busy; from the lack of any further response she can only assume that Julius understands, but isn't interested, and is still on his way over.

Julius doesn't have a desk of his own either here or in the party headquarters. To some extent, this is because his role is a strictly temporary, informal one, and he finds it easier to consider the challenges of the election with a level and objective mind from, as it were, outside the box. To a greater extent, this is because their offices are housed on the fifth and sixth floors of a rather idiosyncratic, gloomy old tower block, where not even Dan gets a room to compare with the grandeur of Number Ten. So having concluded that it's better to be homeless than a guest in such an poor home, Julius' only official place these days is in the House of Lords - though that doesn't stop him from dropping by to air his opinions.

When he arrives, Ollie's shut away with Dan and a small host of advisors, all talking at a frantic pace about Plan Bs and the importance of preparation. Sam greets Julius in the corridor as he gets out of the lift, giving him her most charming smile. "Good morning, Lord Nicholson," she beams as she steers him into her own office, safely away from the action. "Ollie's just in a meeting. In the meantime, can I get you any drinks or biscuits?"

For someone so recently thwarted, Julius seems to be in a clement mood, and answers with a smile of his own. "Good morning, Samantha! Well, I wouldn't say no to a cup of tea. And, ah, since you mention it, what is the biscuit situation today?"

"I'll have to check, but I don't think you'll be disappointed."

"Good, good..."

Sam takes particular pride in her abilities as a host, and it's more this sense of achievement than smugness at the ease of manipulation that cheers her up as she reaches for the snack drawer in her desk. This drawer is a reincarnation of the stash of fresh fruit she used to maintain for Malcolm in government. She still keeps it locked, out of habit from the days when Mars bars and mini Toblerones were housed here for the mollification of former shadow chancellor Ben Swain. And for the last three years, since Ben was shunted to the outer limits of her awareness, it has played host to a variety of other treats: Skittles for the chief whip, some flapjacks for Dan, and peanut butter cups for Ollie in the hope that one day he'll eat them and develop even a tiny amount of body fat. Sam herself is supposedly trying to diet, so there's nothing in the drawer for her except a couple of healthy cereal bars, which have lain untouched for at least eighteen months.

When catering for Julius, the choice between Jaffa Cakes and bourgeois M&S nut-biscuits comes down to the occasion. The latter are only really suitable for a celebration, and on the rare days when he needs some encouragement to remember his lofty station. Today, she opts for the former.

A few minutes later, Sam has resumed her seat, the snack drawer is locked once more against the hands of hungry MPs, and a contented Julius is holding his teacup in one hand and a Jaffa Cake in the other. He regards Sam across her desk.

"You see, Samantha," he says, with more than his usual delicacy, "as you can imagine, I was rather ticked off when I heard Daniel announce his _charming_ slogan earlier this morning. It was a very rash thing to do just to pip me to the post after I had made my thoughts on the matter clear. Don't you think?" He raises his eyebrows and bites off half his Jaffa Cake, chewing with care before going on. "I don't mind telling you that I found the whole idea puerile from the start, and frankly I'm offended that my voice wasn't heard. After all, it was young Oliver who asked my advice in the first place. Some might ask: why do that if you have no interest in the goods once they're delivered?"

Sam can only nod politely. Surely Julius must know that the decision had nothing to do with her? What, then, can be his motive? He's not angry, and it's not his style to squander time in idle complaint.

Finishing his Jaffa Cake and helping himself to another, Julius continues, "But I'm willing to cede that perhaps this isn't my strongest area, and sometimes a man - or woman - has to say, 'this is my prerogative; this is a major PR decision I'm entitled to make on the hoof without recourse to the advice of my more seasoned colleagues, and I'm going to make it.' Fair enough. All I ask..." and here he tilts his head by a fraction, looks at her with cool, expectant eyes. He puts her in mind of a lizard. "Is that my suggestions get taken more seriously in future."

"Well, we're always grateful to be benefiting from your experience."

"Yes," says Julius, with an insufferably knowing smirk, "you _are._ And it would be in everyone's best interests if we were to keep it that way. Don't you think?"

Aha. Sam understands at last: he's not quite laying his cards on the table yet, but he's being rather careless about angling them so that she can see where the game is going. _Cross me one more time and I'm out of here for good._ She does her best to keep her voice flat, to disguise her suspicion that this is nothing but a bluff. "I couldn't agree more. When Ollie's meeting finishes, I'm sure he'll be able to reassure you of just how seriously we take all your contributions, Lord Nicholson."

Julius smiles. "Let's hope so."


	5. Chapter 5

_1000 hours_

There's something about Ollie that can still look so lost, so needy. He's like a frightened child when he thinks nobody's looking, and Sam doesn't count. He drums his fingers on her desk and pulls a face that says his heart-to-heart with Julius has given him much to think about.

"Here's the situation," he says, after a long pause. "Julius is... hurt, you could say, by the fact that I ignored him over the hashtag. He's wounded. He's like a wounded horse - still limping on, but he's really not feeling too great. Maybe this isn't the best metaphor, but what I'm trying to say is that if we were to wound him again... he might not make it to the finish line." Perhaps he mistakes Sam's courteous silence for blank confusion, because he waves his hands and relaunches. "Which is to say that if I don't shuffle over and give him a go on the steering wheel, he's just going to fuck off, er, fuck off out of the car, essentially."

Sam nods. "Would we rather he stayed in the car-slash-horserace?"

The pained look on Ollie's face says it all. "Well, the thing is, he's kind of the only person who agreed to help us drive the car in the first place. Not that I need help, but, you know. If Julius goes, we're a bit fucked for options."

"There's always Steve Fleming." But Sam's own habit of mouthing that name without voicing it reminds her why there is _never_ Steve Fleming, not if he can be avoided. Ollie seems to be in agreement. He winces.

"Fleming... he's a Fleming psychopath. Electoral suicide. Might as well ring up Malcolm and get him to pass on all the new tricks he learned inside." Here Sam feels her jaw clenching as Ollie adopts an awkward Glaswegian accent. " _Ye jus' wait 'til the fucker's asleep then garrotte 'im through the bars wi' yer shirtsleeves._ Sorry, that..." As they stare at each other, the lines between social discomfort and physical pain start to blur. "That was a bit inappropriate. But my point stands. Dan appreciates Steve's _remote_ support, but reckons he's too tainted by... well, everything he's ever said or done... to properly renew the party for government. You remember those days better than I do, Sam. Tom bringing him back was the equivalent of a marooned sailor drinking his own urine. So - you see why we need Julius."

Quietly, Sam says, "Whatever you think, Ollie. What has he suggested?"

"He, ahem, he wants to look into adopting a new strategy for the debates. Not tonight, it's too late for that, but in the second two he thinks we'll stand a better chance if we cooperate with JB's people."

Sam can't help her eyes widening in surprise at that. "Cooperate?"

"Well, not cooperate, exactly. Although that is the word he used. He's been making some inquiries and thinks we could be using them to our advantage. To team up against the DPM who, let's face it, is going to wipe the floor at least with JB and probably with Dan, too, unless we find a way to fuck her."

This, at least, is true. The Inbetweeners' bold new face may not be so new any more, but the last two years have only made her bolder as her party has clawed together a sweeping recovery in the polls - a change in fortune credited to their latest leader's open determination to make JB's life a misery. Sam is all for anything that will bring her down a peg or two, but she's not sure tag-teaming with the Tories is the way to do it.

"The thing is, Sam, Dan's already told Julius that it's all systems go on this, so we don't have an awful lot of choice." Ollie lays his hands flat on her desk. "And if I'm honest, I don't think it's an entirely terrible idea. JB can't really lay into her without looking like a massive pile of shit for having endorsed her so warmly when she was elected, and making his whole government look bad and splintered and blah blah blah. And as things stand the disillusioned government-haters seem to be gunning to vote for her, when obviously they should be voting for us."

Fading to slow staccato, Ollie gives Sam one of those searching looks to try and gauge what she thinks of all this. She isn't sure how to respond. "So... they would feed us information, help us find her weaknesses..."

"Exactly! And in return, we would maybe not have Dan go quite so hard on JB, 'cause frankly the posh bastard's got about as much hope as the fat kid on sports day. I mean, a hurricane could hit and JB could pull half a dozen orphaned kittens from the wreckage and he couldn't get re-elected president of a book club, never mind prime minister of the fucking country. JB is not a threat to us any more. This Liberal bitch is, in her own fucking hopeless Liberal way." Ollie breathes, resumes. "I mean, she's not going to win the election, that would be stupid, but she could wind up being _our_ DPM in a few weeks. It's probably best to give her a bit of a stern telling-off before climbing into bed with her or we'll wake up and find she's chewed our collective knob off. I think, _Julius_ thinks, it might be worth, you know, turning to the Dark Side on this one."

So this is what it's come to. Sam can see the logic of it, but she can see the doubt in Ollie's eyes as his rant tails off, and she won't pretend she doesn't feel the same way herself. Julius wouldn't be doing himself justice if he didn't have an ulterior motive in suggesting this, but since Sam can't guess what it might be, and seeing as they really are running low on options, she doesn't feel justified in objecting. "It's definitely outside the box," she shrugs instead. "Are you going to speak to Emma Messinger, then, or - ?"

"Ah yes, Emma," exclaims Ollie, as if he hadn't thought of that. "Right, yes, going to have to get chatting with the top girl if we want to make an arrangement!" Sam nods, ever patient, as he blusters. "I was thinking maybe you could take care of that, Sam, at least for now, since I'm so busy prepping Dan for tonight and dealing with the Twitter thing. Is that okay?"

"That's fine."

"Right, thanks. Just give her a ring, send her an email, let her know what we're thinking, get a sense of where she stands. Ideally we'd like to have a meeting within the next few days, me and Dan and JB... and Emma."

"You're the boss."

Ollie's eyes light up. "I am. I'm the boss, and you're the secretary. Fuck, no, I didn't mean that in a sexy way. I was literally stating facts." Sam wonders if Ollie's spent his whole career thinking she's a secretary instead of a PA. He gets to his feet and takes out his phone, then gives her a thumbs up on the way to the door. "Let me know how it goes. I'll be doing my thing, dispensing briefings to a crowd of adoring journos. Oh, and keep an eye on 'danistheman,' yeah? If it really bombs we'll have to send the t-shirts back."


	6. Chapter 6

_1100 hours_

Sam has no doubt that Emma will be at least as busy as Ollie today, albeit under slightly less pressure, given that she's working with a semi-competent team of advisors and civil servants while he's basically trying to build a house of cards with one card. Nonetheless, Sam is accustomed to keep her emails short and to the point. Above all, she is careful with her choice of words.

 **From :** Sam Cassidy — Assistant to Ollie Reeder

 **To :** Emma Messinger

 **Subject :** The debates

Emma,

I'm told Julius Nicholson has already been in touch with your team to talk about the possibility of a less adversarial approach to the leaders' debates, which might benefit everyone. Ollie thinks this is worth pursuing. Could we arrange a meeting to negotiate?

Sam Cassidy  
On behalf of Ollie Reeder

 

That won't look too bad when it inevitably gets leaked, will it? The public are supposed to love all that cuddly cross-party stuff. When she's dealt with the remainder of her morning emails, Sam opens Twitter and enters a search for Dan's name, failing to suppress a snigger at what she finds.

The tag's certainly had an impact. The first page of recent results is composed of complaints about it. Here, Sam finds echoed exactly what she thought all along: a sense that making such a declaration so early in the day is nothing but presumptuous, and that in trying to shape the flow of online comment Dan may as well be trying to hold back the tide. The top results, however, reveal that it's not all bad: the tag has given rise to a new game of verbal ingenuity to rival the poultry slogans, one which involves editing photos of Dan into amusing visual puns and tagging them appropriately. Thus, Dan's head on the body of an erotic dancer (#danwithafan); Dan loading cardboard boxes into the back of a Transit (#danwithavan); and Sam's personal favourite, Dan reading a newspaper while sat on a toilet (#danonthecan). She's particularly impressed by the creator's attention to detail in making the headline of the paper a comment on his uselessness.

Once Sam has finished being torn between gloom at her leader's humiliation and delight at the form it has taken, she returns to her inbox. Emma isn't so preoccupied that she can't tell an important offer when she sees one. Good.

 **From :** Emma Messinger  
  
 **To :** Sam Cassidy — Assistant to Ollie Reeder

 **Subject :** RE : The debates

Hi Sam,

Well obviously if Ollie thinks it's the right thing then it's the right thing, wouldn't you agree?

In all seriousness, I am very up for this. Nicholson's already pitched us a basic outline. JB really needs all the help he can get, and of course if you demonstrate that you understand that, there's plenty we can do to show how much we understand you in return. I do love a bit of cross-party consensus!

I think Ollie and I should discuss this frankly at the earliest opportunity. It's too late to come to any kind of settlement by this evening, but at the debate itself would be an ideal place for a chat. I expect I'll see him in the press room before/during and we can talk then.

Emma Messinger

 

Satisfied, Sam takes a moment to consider her place before replying. This is a woman whose favour she needs to court on Ollie's behalf if this deal is ever going to come off. She doesn't know Emma well (not as well as Ollie does, supplies some snide part of her brain) but they have met before, and Sam found her tolerable enough for a Tory - more so than that creep Stewart Pearson, anyway, but calculating and with a strong reputation for ruthlessness. In this case, the need to win over a natural enemy trumps the need to remain invisible. Sam can almost hear that voice now. _Sometimes when some cunt has something you need, it doesn't hurt to show a bit of leg, aye?_

Putting actual flesh on display might be going too far in this instance, but who is Sam to play standoffish when a general election may hang in the balance?

 **From :** Sam Cassidy — Assistant to Ollie Reeder

 **To :** Emma Messinger

 **Subject :** RE: RE: The debates

Thanks. It’s a date. Best of luck tonight.

Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	7. Chapter 7

_1200 hours_

Coffee in one hand, folder full of revised and fact-checked immigration notes in the other, Sam slips into Ollie's office without a sound. He's sitting on the edge of his desk, legs swinging, while behind it Dan steeples his fingers. Dotted around the room are Dan's speechwriter Ralph and a few advisor buddies from his DoSAC days. None of them pay any notice of Sam.

"It's so fucking easy, mate," says one. "They've handed this one to you on a slab of rye bread and sprinkled it with parmesan cheese. Just remember: it doesn't matter how they dress it up; removing our old ringfence on counselling for compulsive arsonists was morally equivalent to asking, explicitly, for that school to burn down."

"Or maybe even to burning it down themselves?"

"I like that," says Dan. "I could get behind that. Well, enough on justice for now, time to size up my enemies in human form. Let's start by reviewing what we already know and see where that takes us. Focus on the Golden Girl. Give me her strengths."

"Polar opposite of JB. Attractive, 'principled,' not a vacuous inbred pheasant-stuffer..."

"And everyone knows they hate each other since that palaver when he tried to get her sat on a smaller chair at cabinet. That'll play well for her."

Dan raises a finger like he's had an idea. "Can we use that against her? Say she's wrong to stir up trouble within the government, not able to play nicely with her colleagues. I mean, when all's said and done, he is the Prime Minister. She shouldn't be trying to boss him around."

There's an emphatic negative from the others. "No, no, don't you remember? We tried that and had to drop it. It's icky. Sounds like we're telling her to get back in the kitchen and stop standing up to the men."

"Besides, we dined out for years by calling the last guy weak for _not_ standing up to him."

Dan pins these points to the ceiling with one of his thoughtful middle-distance gazes. "Hmm. Maybe you're right." Then his eyes alight on Sam and he smiles. "Ah, Sam. Lovely to see you."

She clears her throat, apologises for the interruption, and crosses the room to give Ollie his coffee and the folder. As he accepts both with a distracted 'thanks,' she leans close and murmurs, "I've managed to get an all-clear for that meeting you asked me to arrange. Tonight, at TV Centre."

"Fab. Sam, you're a wonder."

Cocking his head to one side, Dan asks sweetly, "What's this?"

Ollie hesitates. "You know, it's about Julius' idea..? Instead of you raining down, um, boiling shit on the other two leaders and them raining down on you, he wants us and JB's people to... pool our shit, as it were, and pour it all on the DPM."

"Ah, yes, that idea. He's always got a fresh approach, Julius. I'm impressed by how well he's keeping up with you bright young things. I suppose that's why I'm keeping him on the team." Dan continues to smile, and his eyes narrow. "So, this'll be a meeting with Emma Messinger, I take it?"

"Yes. Maybe. Someone close to JB, anyway. Thanks for the coffee, Sam!" Ollie raises his voice and waves the folder desperately. "And the notes. Perfect, we'll go over these next. Can you go now and make sure everything's ready for the pre-practice-prep thing this evening? Or whatever you need to do."

Sam nods. She's almost at the door when Dan calls out for her to wait. "By the way, Sam, how's 'danistheman' going? Has it caught on yet?"

Without missing a beat, Sam replies, "It's still picking up steam."


	8. Chapter 8

_1300 hours_

Ollie is so engrossed in drilling Dan on his home affairs, and Sam so busy with picking up the slack, that she's glad when a mild lunchtime lull in activity allows her to sit down with a vegetarian panini to watch the BBC news channel. Little Miss Lib has been out supporting the incumbent in one of her London marginals, on camera of course. You'd never guess to look at her that she was frantically preparing for tonight's ninety minute game of pin-the-blame-on-the-leader. And yet she must be. Pretending to ignore the assembled journalists, the DPM shakes hands and beams as if she's just won the election. Make the most of it, thinks Sam; it's the closest you're going to get.

And that righteous anger thing she always pulls on the Tories, that's not fooling anyone with half a brain cell (which, as Ollie would fairly point out, doesn't mean it's not working wonders on the electorate). Rage, charm; wear whatever mask you like, it's still a mask. But make sure it fits and hold onto it tight, because if it slips... well, JB is a living example of what happens when it slips.

They never could find a mask to fit Tom. Nobody in the world could conceive of a mask that would make Tom's face palatable. And if they'd ever found one, he'd never have worn it.

Sam mulls this over whilst digging a stray bit of tomato skin from between her teeth. On balance, she thinks, it's probably a good thing that Dan came into his own at last. What with two dud leaders in a row, Tom's predecessor was beginning to appear like some kind of freakish one-off - well, that much was established from the beginning, but in retrospect, it had started to look a bit fishy that their impressive string of weirdos who couldn't win votes in a tombola should be interrupted by a hat-trick from a prodigy who seemed able to do nothing but. At least with Dan in charge, there's some hope that the party hasn't blown all its charismatic leadership juice for the century in one go. There's even hope, if Sam closes her eyes and concentrates very hard, that they might win the election outright. There was yet another poll out yesterday forecasting a hung parliament. Everyone knows the debates will make or break it for Labour.

Whatever happens, at least she's not in Emma Messinger's shoes. As far as Sam can tell from a distance, Emma's official role as chief of staff seems to encompass a great deal of responsibility; when it comes to discouraging problematic ministers, or keeping delightful right-wing backbenchers at bay, her dual strategy of sweetness and merciless strictness - not wholly unlike a primary school teacher - has earned her a name as JB's deadliest weapon. That said, there's no doubt in anyone's mind that when the time comes, she will turn on him with as little remorse as she turned on Mannion.

For the moment, she and the rest of JB's inner circle are fighting tooth and nail for any glory they can get. It's not unimaginable that some of them are more able than Ollie, but the fact remains that their enterprise is doomed. As the old saying goes, you don't have to be a genius to sell Dan Miller flavoured ice cream, but you do have to be a genius to give away JB shitcakes. Emma might have the potential, but she's too young and inexperienced to pull it off this time, Sam reckons. Well, there'll be a chance to size her up tonight.

Onscreen, the DPM has paused for a photo opportunity with her MP: an older white man whose flabby, establishment face Sam would have deemed off-message on a crucial day like today. She observes from the BBC's captions that his name is Thomas Pratchett. Crunching up the last of her panini, she tries out of habit to imagine what amusing abbreviation could result from the right camera angle and some cropping, but the best she can get is 'prat' (or possibly 'rat') and anyway, he doesn't have a sign. As Sam gazes at the two of them, playing the roles of sincere politicians like the professional actors they are, a thought appears unbidden in her mind and shocks her with its intensity: _I hope you lose._

Sam is sure she didn't use to be like this. Malcolm was, by definition, her everything, and the party his; she supposes at some point it must have started to rub off. He's infectious, Malcolm. His cynicism, his energy, his vocabulary all have a way of working their way inside your head and, with time, they can make a home there. Sam's seen it happen to countless fresh-faced ministers and aides who just didn't have the mental capacity to deal with it. Perhaps it's lucky for Sam that she was rarely on the receiving end of his fury, or today she might be nothing more than a sweary husk - as things stand, she has been left with only the tiniest wisp of the full scale of the passion, the terrifying fervour with which he adores his party. Watching him put himself through the wringer day after day after day for years on end, she began to wonder what abstract notion it was that he found so worthy of his blood. He didn't have the time of day for most of the individuals who came into his office, so what was it that so inflamed his tribalism?

Even now that Sam thinks she understands, she's not sure she could put it into words. Certainly, she could never broach the subject with Malcolm, fearing his scorn for her all too little and late conversion. All she knows is that the DPM fills her with dislike simply by being other, and that's part of the reason she's here. It's a failing she's going to have to suppress in all her dealings with Emma, that's for sure.

Ollie's head appears around the door. "These t-shirts, Sam. Yay or nay?"

Though she's had several years in which to get used to Ollie's dithering, Sam still blinks before delivering her verdict. "Nay."

"Ta." Ollie nods and disappears again. Sam isn't convinced he really cares about her opinion on the matter, but he seems to take comfort in touching base with her every now and then, to talk things over with someone older and wiser than he is. She smiles. That description strikes her as absurd, even though there's no reason it should do. It's true, after all. Her discomfort at the fact that she's almost old enough to be his mother masks her deeper disturbance, at the memory of what happens when circumstances force someone to plug the gaps in others' competence. Dear god, let party loyalty be the full extent of her inheritance from Malcolm Tucker.


	9. Chapter 9

_1400 hours_

"Fucksticks." Ollie is bending over his computer monitor, his eyes wide, his fingers twitching. "Fuck in a punt, Sam, why didn't you do something about this?"

Bowing her head in unspoken apology, Sam admits, "There wasn't anything I could do. That's the nature of the internet, Ollie. It makes up its own mind."

"Yeah, yeah, I get the point, you were right and I was wrong, boo fucking hoo. Fuck. What are we going to do?" He straightens up and frowns into his hands.

Sam can't help herself. "Did you see the one where he's sat on the loo?"

"Yeah." The way he starts to giggle, then cuts himself off when he sees her deadpan expression, almost makes her crack. "It's childish bullshit, that's what it is. I can't believe 'stick it to the man' is trending higher than ours."

"Are we going to issue a statement?"

"What? No! We're going to ignore it until it goes away!" Ollie blinks at her. "Why, do you think we should?"

"Oh, er, no. Not if you don't want to. I was just going to say, what we really have to worry about is the news sites. The _Mail_ has compiled a whole album of the edited photographs and it's their most viewed today. They're calling it the Sheffield rally of the digital age."

Ollie groans. "Can you send me a link to that? No, actually, I don't want to see it." He turns to her, his whole skinny frame taut with irritation. "You know what the worst thing is in all this, don't you?" Sam waits in polite silence. "Nicholson's going to be fucking insufferable. If we don't bend to his every whim for the next twenty years it's going to be 'I was right about this' and 'you were wrong about that' and 'I could have stopped you fucking your electoral prospects into a fucking black hole...'"

"Aw, don't exaggerate," says Sam gently. _Julius is never so casually profane._ "It's not that bad. I've got some news to cheer you up. Fleming's been on the line."

There's a 'thunk' as Ollie drops heavily into his chair, followed by another as he allows his forehead to hit his desk. "Oh god, please tell me by that you mean he tried tightrope-walking across Brussels and has plummeted to his death."

"No, I'm afraid he phoned in the hope of speaking to you. I told him you were busy."

"Well, yeah, I should fucking think so! What does everyone's creepiest uncle want now?"

"Just a chat, I think. He asked how things are going 'back home on the range.'"

Ollie's voice is a dull monotone, muffled by the wood of his desk. "Oh god."

Sam nods sadly. "Yes. If you need the subtext translating, I'd say he's following Dan's online escapades and he's reached the conclusion that we'll be forced to bring him back before the campaign is up. He was seeking to gloat. Are you sure you don't want to issue a statement?"

"Still no, Sam."

"Fine..."

Here, Ollie drags his torso upright again, moving as if barely able to lift the sheer metaphorical weight upon his shoulders. "You know," he muses, "it's just like that fucking predatory cunt to start sticking his nose back in right now. He's sensed that we're wounded and now he's stalking us through the undergrowth, getting ready to finish us off for good like a - a crocodile of shit. Well, fuck that." He slams down a hand on the arm of his chair. "We can lose this election without his help, thanks oh so very much. If he calls again, tell him to go have sex with a tree or whatever it is the EU pays him to do, and to expect his rehabilitation on the day Satan himself wins Dancing on Ice. I'm off to take a slash."

Of course, in the inevitable event of Steve's voice next oozing from the receiver and fondling her eardrums, Sam will not relate this message word-for-word - but oh, how she would love to. She is saved from daydreaming by the brief reappearance of Ollie. "By the way, we have to make this deal with JB work, all right? We can struggle through tonight with a bit of luck, but if next week's a disaster, or if Julius takes his ball and goes to play down the road, I refuse to deal with Steve. The moment that fucking moustache appears on the horizon, I'll be out of here, yeah?"

"Yes. Okay." So, Sam notes as Ollie hurries off to the gents', he would rather work with his acrimonious ex than with Fleming. Interesting, and perhaps not all that surprising. Conscious that they will soon need to make their way to TV Centre to begin preparations for the debate, Sam calls Julius and gets through to him on her second try.

His voice is more exuberant than usual, but less grating than Steve's and infinitely more assured than Ollie's. If it weren't for the crap he comes out with, Sam would listen to him talk for hours. "Samantha, my dear girl," Julius exclaims, "I'm so sorry, I was just on a call with my publisher. Between you and me, I think it went rather well." He chuckles, buoyed up, as is only human, by the sublime beauty of the prospect of money. "I hope I haven't missed anything too important?"

"No, Lord Nicholson, I just wanted to remind you that we're booked in for a rehearsal session at TV Centre from four onwards. Can you still make it?"

"Ah, yes, of course. I had better get going soon; from what I can remember, that place deserves its reputation as an atrocious one for getting lost."

"Oh, I've heard they've installed a much more effective new signposting system since 2010. It's very modern. Anyway, we can have a car sent to collect you if necessary."

"If you would be so kind..."

"I'll send one right away, Lord Nicholson. Also, I spoke to Messinger and she's agreeable, just like you said. I've arranged to meet her tonight at the debate."

With a knowing smile in his voice, Julius says, "Good work, Samantha. What did I tell you? Truly great strategic thinking makes everyone a winner. Except that awful Liberal woman, I suppose, but never mind about her."

"Couldn't agree more. Will you want to be around for the negotiations, or..?"

"Oh, I hope so, but it can be difficult at these events to get oneself to where one is meant to be, especially when every available space is swarming with the media. Nevertheless, if I can avoid getting separated from the pack, I'll be there. I'd like this plan to go off without a hitch, and with all due respect to young Oliver, I think he'll require a certain amount of hand-holding when dealing with our new allies."

This is fair enough. Team JB may not seem very imposing on the surface, but the stakes today are very high indeed, and Ollie will need all the emotional support he can get. "Many thanks, Lord Nicholson," says Sam. "See you later at the rehearsal."

"With any luck!" quips Julius, before hanging up, no doubt to take another call from his publisher.


	10. Chapter 10

_1500 hours_

London rolls past the windows while Sam, wedged in the back seat between Ollie and Ralph, does her best to stay out of the debate erupting around her. Dan twists round from the front seat to make the case in favour of the t-shirts. "Can't we even wear them ourselves?"

"No, Dan, I'm sorry!" protests Ollie. "You saw what happened with the hashtag today. Giving out fucking t-shirts as well now would be the complete opposite of sensible PR, it would be fucking nonsensible."

"Oh, come on. We've got them printed and everything."

Exasperated, Ollie explains, "I know we've got them printed, I was the one who ordered - well, I oversaw the ordering of the printing. It's a waste, I know it's a waste of a great idea of mine, but reality has screwed us over as per usual."

"Would it really look that bad?" In a lesser man, Dan's tone of voice might be described as wheedling. "It's just a slogan."

"A disastrous slogan."

Shrugging his shoulders, Dan says, "I mean, it's not as if they've got my face printed on the front or anything." He pauses. "Maybe they _should_ have my face printed on the front..."

Sam is doing her best to stay focused on her Blackberry, but good grief, it isn't easy.

"And what, we would have the back of your head on the back?"

"Where would we put the words?"

All that really distresses her about Ollie, apart from his alternating hesitance and recklessness and his bad jokes and his incompetence and his hair, is the way he's never once, not in all her three long years of working for him, paused for even a second to say: this whole culture is fucking ridiculous. Everyone's got to live with the system, but the extent to which Ollie and Dan embrace it without question makes her nauseous.

"We wouldn't need the words. The face alone would speak a thousand words."

"We don't need a thousand words, Dan. No election in the last twenty years has been won with a slogan of more than six. Why the fuck would we put a thousand words on a t-shirt?"

Then again, maybe it's just motion sickness from checking her emails in the car.

The traffic is grim, and by the time Sam tunes back into the conversation, it has at least moved on to more pressing matters. "What's so great about her, anyway?" Dan wonders, and Sam can tell he means the DPM. "I mean, all she did was come out and say she hates JB. So what? Everyone does. I do; I've met him and he's a total shit. There you go. Where's my parade?"

"I started hating JB before it got mainstream," Ollie insists, head tilted back on the seating. "I hated him the moment I heard of him. I could be the nation's sweetheart too, if I had the right publicity and a boob job."

"Healthy though your hatred of the Prime Minister is," murmurs Sam, lowering her Blackberry for a moment, "we're still supposed to be cooperating with him on this. It wouldn't help to let your true feelings slip during the debate and sabotage Nicholson's plan."

Ollie pulls a face. "All right, Little Miss Machiavelli. Don't get your knickers in a twist, we can handle this." As Sam rolls her eyes and resists the temptation to kick him in the shins, Ollie turns his attentions back to Dan. "Do bear that in mind, though, Dan. JB's an easy target. You don't have to demean yourself by aiming for him every time."

Here Ralph pipes up, to vigorous nodding from Ollie: "Matter of fact, if you can, get a dab of admiration in there. Any idiot knows you don't genuinely respect him, but drop a couple of hints to reflect badly on her."

"Yeah, yeah, absolutely. It'll ease the wheels of our negotiations." Dan eyes his staff over the handbrake. "Speaking of which, Ollie, have you heard any more from Emma since this morning?"

"Er..." Turning to Sam, Ollie says, "I don't know. Have we?"

Taken aback, Sam explains, "Well, I didn't know we were expecting to. Sorry, I thought we were leaving it all to tonight. Is that wrong?"

Dan shrugs. "No, that's fine, that's okay. I just assumed that you'd keep up some kind of back-and-forth with her past the initial contact, that's all. You know, to pave the way for smooth communication later. But if not - never mind."

Irritation bubbles and then dies within Sam. She knows how to do her job, and she will not be made to feel incompetent by a man who is essentially paid to be popular. She makes eye-contact with Ollie, hoping to share a silent acknowledgement of Dan's passive-aggressive bullshit for what it is, but instead Ollie merely glances away, pretending not to have noticed. This ignites a second, much smaller flare-up of annoyance, but once it passes Sam's inner sea is mirror-smooth as ever.


	11. Chapter 11

Five years ago, Sam stood in a room similar to this one and watched as the Prime Minister practised his lines. Dan was very much out of favour back then. Now he stands in Tom's place in an open-collared shirt, grasping the back of a chair like it's the lectern in a pulpit, while to either side stand Ollie and Ralph in the roles of PM and DPM respectively. Now, as then, Sam is on hand with an A4 sheet of questions and a stopwatch. Now, as then, hopeful interruptions by the rest of the assembled advisors are met with disdain; but refreshingly, Dan has the good manners to sugar coat his scorn with a smile and maybe half a second of self-deprecating patter. Sam thinks him very agreeable, so long as she keeps reminding herself of the existence of Nicola Murray.

"I agree wholeheartedly with the Prime Minister's stance on this issue, and so does my party. Therein lies the crucial difference between us. If you vote Conservative, you don't just get him with his progressive attitudes - you get the rest of his MPs, with their backward thinking and bigotry. That's the reason a Conservative or a Conservative-led government is not and _will never be_ in a position to deliver real change."

The stopwatch sounds. Beaming, Ollie claps Dan on the back. "Nice work, big guy. It's just, maybe try and phrase the last bit positively, rather than negatively? Negative talk, nobody's into that shit."

"But I'm criticising his party, Ollie. I can't do that by saying nice things about them, unless you want me to be heavily sarcastic."

"I know, I know. I'm not saying you should say nice things about them, and whatever you do try not to sound sarcastic. All I'm saying is that instead of pointing out the ways they're crap, try and stick to pointing out all the ways in which we're better then them." Ollie snickers. "Well, not all the ways, that would take weeks. Focus on the domestic issues for the time being. Speaking of which - hit us with another headscratcher, Sam. And we'll follow up with a two minute discussion this time."

Sam clears her throat and reads aloud from the sheet. "Could the 2011 riots happen again today, and if so, how have we failed to remedy the causes? Dan, your minute starts now." She squeezes the button on the stopwatch and sees the digits start to race past as Dan composes himself.

Halfway through his answer, the door at the back of the room opens quietly and someone slips inside. Sam, who has her back to him, recognises Julius by the facial expression he elicits from Ollie. Dan doesn't so much as blink, and continues to the end of his answer with effortlessly smooth delivery. Only when Sam has clicked the stopwatch a second time to begin the leaders' two minutes of arguing does she twist round in her chair to face the new arrival.

"So," she whispers, "you made it after all."

"Yes, although now I'm here, I'm not sure why I bothered. It's all going so well already," says Julius, not _wholly_ insincere. "What's this, then? Crime, toughness on causes of?" Sam nods. "Daniel's really got the knack of this. He reminds me of someone."

They both turn their eyes on Dan in order to admire his ability to form coherent sentences. "I see what you mean," Sam says after a second, adding, "Do you remember going through this with Tom? Do you remember all the broken stationery?"

"I remember having to give him water in a mug because he kept destroying the plastic cups..."

Sam grimaces. She'll always remember Tom. He's not an easy man to forget - that's the thing everyone always says about him, anyway, because it sounds a bit like a compliment. Julius' voice cuts gently through her recollections. "By the way, Samantha, there's been a bit of a change of plan. I've been summoned to a meeting tonight which means I'll have to zip off around nine, so I'll still catch most of the debate. That won't be a problem, will it?"

"Well, I'll have to check with Ollie once he's finished being JB. But no, I don't think - if you absolutely have to go -"

"I know what you're thinking," mutters Julius, with remarkable accuracy, "but I trust young Oliver to draw up the terms of our alliance in my absence. Obviously he'll need a more experienced hand guiding him." He inclines his head towards Sam. "If he has that, and if Messinger doesn't get above herself, it should be a very easy negotiation indeed. And in terms of intent, I don't think he'll dare to risk the strategy just to spite me." Julius sees the look on Sam's face and smirks. "He's learned his lesson today over the Twitter debacle! Now all he needs is a chance to prove it. You know about my difficulties with your previous boss; if we're going back into government I'd rather not have them repeat themselves."

"And what if they do?"

"Quite frankly, if Mr Reeder fluffs this up tonight, either accidentally or -" here a deliberate pause, and Julius mimics inverted commas with his forefingers "- 'accidentally,' Daniel would be wise to look into replacing him, don’t you think?"

Slowly, Sam nods. "Yes, Lord Nicholson. I understand, but why are you telling me this?"

He looks at her with wide eyes. "You're the Old Guard, Samantha, you know. You have been for some time. Lord knows we haven’t always been on the same team, but now I'm depending on you to keep Messinger onside during the coming fortnight. You will tell her what she needs to hear, won't you?"

Again, Sam just nods. She knows Julius likes to use people, but she never expected to be one of them. Not only that, but he's bothered to flatter her by drawing aside the curtain for an inside look at _how_ she's being used: equally flattering, Sam's role in the drama emphasises her skills as a people person. To fail in carrying it out would be to puncture her beloved reputation for making everyone, no matter how repellent, feel liked and at ease.

So, she thinks, good strategic thinking really does make everyone a winner. Or at least it helps.


	12. Chapter 12

_1700 hours_

Nobody goes home this afternoon; it's lockdown in Television Centre until the debate is over and the plans for next week are in place. Dan, reasoning that this doesn't mean he has to work flat-out, has found one of the BBC's sofas to take a nap on. Sam and Ollie sit across the room in matching chairs. Everyone else has scattered to the winds, mostly in search of somewhere to smoke. Sam retrieves a packet of peanut butter cups from her handbag.

"What the fuck is that?"

She offers them to him. "They're chocolate with peanut butter inside. There's an Asda near my house that gets them in specially from Canada. They're really nice." Sam isn't one hundred percent sure of the honesty of that statement; she just wants Ollie to eat something. "Go on, try it."

Grumbling doubtfully, Ollie takes the packet and pulls it open, helping himself to one. Then he passes the packet back to Sam. "Aren't you having any?"

"I'm on a diet," she reminds him. As Ollie takes his first hesitant bite, Sam looks over at Dan's dozing form before saying softly, "Julius isn't going to be around at the meeting tonight, I'm afraid. That's not going to be a problem, is it?"

Ollie splutters, in response to the peanut butter or the news, or perhaps both. "What?" he demands. "Why not?"

"He's got an important engagement."

"What's more important than this?"

Sam can only spread her hands in apology. "He was quite firm, Ollie. Anyway, he said it wasn't a going to be a problem because you can be trusted to carry out the negotiations properly by yourself."

"Well, obviously I can!" Ollie's mouth is now full of chocolate. Whether this was his intention is unclear. "But why would Julius think that I can? I thought he really had it in for me after this morning, and now he's going to let me take all the credit for his scheming?"

"No, Ollie, let's be clear: he's not letting you take the credit. He's just making you carry out the dirty work."

A crumb of chocolate lands on her jacket. Ollie is reddening. "So when he fucks up my hashtag masterstroke, I'm the one who gets the stick for it, but when I execute his cooperation bullshit, he's the one who gets a pat on the back!"

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"Fucknoodles!"

Sam points to Dan, who has started to stir, and presses a finger to her lips. "Shh. It's not a big deal, Ollie. Dan will appreciate your hard work just the same. And this way you get to position yourself at the centre, really build some connections for the future. "

"Connections with who? My fucking ex and her cronies?" Ollie lapses into bitter silence. After a while Sam tries to hand him another chocolate, but is ignored. When at last he does speak, it's in a maligned, protesting tone of voice that does nothing to stir her sympathy. "I always knew she was a psycho," he hisses. "The moment she gave her old boss the push, just to take the spotlight off JB for another week, everyone clocked her. I said it all along!"

While Sam understands where Ollie's coming from, really she does, she has also heard this story quite a few times before. Any second now he's going to start saying Mannion wasn't so bad for a Tory.

"And he wasn't so bad, for a Tory. He definitely didn't deserve to have her turn on him like that. Yeah, there was the stupid hair, but at least he has a fucking sense of humour, which is a fuck sight more than can be said for Emma. Argh!"

The pressure of the debate at the prospect of the meeting combined are getting Ollie more wound up than usual, so Sam wills herself to be patient. She wraps a comforting arm around his shoulder and sighs. "There, there. It's going to be okay. Why don't you have another cup?"

"They're not cups, Sam," Ollie mumbles into his sleeve. "They're little fucking discs."

"I still think you should have another. To keep you going this afternoon."

"I've just had it up to here with everyone, you know? This job's hard enough without them making it harder, but they just don't get it. Especially Julius, especially fucking Julius..."

"I know, I know. Nothing chocolate won't sort out." This time Ollie takes it and eats without comment, while Sam rocks him steadily from side to side. "There you go. Pull yourself together, now. I think Dan's about ready to rejoin the world of the living."

By the time Dan sits up and stretches, Sam and Ollie are once more sitting a respectable distance from one another, sharing the same unemotional demeanour. Dan squints at them. "Are we having snacks? I hope you brought flapjacks."

"Of course," Sam smiles, drawing out a small tupperware box. "Nothing but the best for our next Prime Minister!"


	13. Chapter 13

_1800 hours_

Over the course of the evening the rehearsal room has become increasingly messy, the furniture littered with newspapers and the remains of the odd takeaway. After forty minutes of non-stop practice, a timeout has been called, and so Sam busies herself spreading rumours about the Energy Secretary while Ollie helps Dan into a fresh suit.

"Look, mate," he says, a tie in each hand, "I'm starting to think we should be putting something out regarding this Twitter thing. It's starting to attract flies in much the same manner as a dead horse."

Dan peers at him. "Flies? How do you mean?"

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to tell you this, but - I've had two calls from Steve Fleming today. In light of our little temporary glitch, he seems to think he's in line for yet another Voldemort-style comeback."

Not for a moment does Dan let this news disturb the studied calm on his face. His gaze slips down, refusing, as it tends to do when his brain is working, to settle on anything solid. "I see," he says after a pause. After another he leans over to Sam, his shirt hanging open, and asks, "Sam, sorry to bother you, but since you're on your phone, could you do some research for me? I need to know exactly how far away to send some toxic waste so it won't ever, ever be heard from again. Will somewhere in the Pacific ocean do, or will I need to eject it into space?"

Sam glances up for long enough to give a polite smile at his joke, then gets back to work. Ollie, meanwhile, is maintaining a low but consistent stream of words. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Dan, would you please take this seriously? He nearly lost you the leadership, he's more than capable of arsing up a general election!"

"Let's not get carried away," Dan purrs. "Steve's a very well-respected party figure."

"Yeah, if by 'respected' you mean 'hated by everyone except the guy he single-handedly dragged into Downing Street back in the Nineties, and even he's completely washed his hands of him because he's a mental fucker.' What are we going to do?"

After another extended period of consideration while tugging on his trousers, Dan says, "Okay, how about - and do tell me if this is crap - how about you issue a statement to kill the Twitter thing while I go for a really, really long walk?"

Ollie blinks. "That is completely... fucking... fine. What, just me by myself?"

"Yes, just you by yourself! You're a press officer, you do press, don't you? Or did I miss a memo saying press officers now have responsibility for baby animals and the arrangement of obscure cutlery?"

"No, fine, fine... I'll sort it... you go for your walk." Ollie turns away as Dan fastens his belt. "Try not to get lost, this place is a fucking labyrinth. I think they want you in for makeup and all that stuff by seven thirty."

Sam keeps her head down as Dan ties his shoelaces, then leaves without a word. She can almost smell Ollie's panic, watching him stare blankly at his laptop out of the corner of her eye, and she can't help but take pity on him. After a decent period of silence, she glances up and says, "Anything I can help with?"

It's a wonder Ollie's joints don't pop in relief. "If you don't mind," he sighs. "My instincts are telling me to take it on the chin, ho ho ho, we're so laid-back that we can have a laugh at our own expense. But maybe I should be taking it in the opposite direction - stop cheapening political debate you fuckers, stop ignoring the real issues here..."

Nodding, Sam wonders how to frame her answer without hurting his pride. "Look, this might be rubbish, but I'm just going to throw it out there right off the top of my head in case it helps." She licks her lips and sees him doing the same, anxiously. "You could, possibly, bring the two together. We can see the funny side, but what _isn't_ funny is the way the media allows a little joke like this to obscure our key message."

"Is there a key message?"

"Of course, Ollie."

He mumbles, "Of course, yeah," and seems to think this over for a second. "Well, it's all we've got, and we should probably get in there before the debate starts if we want anyone to even read a word of it. Best to flush the whole Twitter thing down the shitter as soon as possible, yeah?"

"Mmm." Sam's thumbs start to move over the keys of her phone again as Ollie starts to type like a man possessed.


	14. Chapter 14

_1900 hours_

"Where the _fuck_ is he?"

"I don't know, I don't know!"

"Fucking go and find him, then!" 

"I've sent Sam to go and dig him out..."

Around a corner and down a corridor from this commotion, Sam is scampering along with Dan in tow. He checks his watch, not flustered in the least. "Oh dear, it sounds like we've caused something of a panic."

Sam keeps her lips pursed until they've rounded the corner, bringing Ollie, Ralph and a distressed BBC-shirted woman into view. "I've got him," Sam announces. Ollie rolls his eyes and the BBC woman irately conveys the news into a walkie talkie.

"Where the fuck have you been?" demands Ollie, looking through Sam at his boss. "I said we needed you here at seven!"

"I'm pretty sure you said seven thirty," Dan replies, coolly smoothing down his tie. He turns to the woman with a smile. "So sorry for the confusion. Shall we continue?"

The group hurries off, and Sam isn't sure whether or not to follow until Ollie turns back and snaps, "Sam, are you just going to stand there? Come on!"

A few minutes later Dan is seated in front of a mirror while what appears to be a ten-year-old girl fixes his hair. Sam is part of a small group gathered around and trying, though not very hard, to stay out of the way while Ollie reels off pointers for the debate, many of which seem to have lifted verbatim from the dossier Malcolm used to out send to new ministers. "Keep the smiling to a minimum, and don't blink too much. But don't stop blinking altogether. It looks creepy, and apart from that it's just really bad for your eyes. They might start to run and the last thing you want is to start crying on TV. Save that for the documentary where some twat follows you around with a camcorder and asks about your fucking dead mum."

To make matters worse, they have now been joined by Julius, who is less than helpful. "Here's something I've picked up from my stints on the after-dinner circuit: whenever you lose your thread and need to play for time, simply repeat the last thing you said, as if for emphasis." He clears his throat and demonstrates. "I believe that what this country lacks is a sense of energy and purpose. A sense of energy - and purpose."

Dan is prevented from replying by a hand swooping down to powder his chin. He sits in frustrated silence until it moves on to his nose, and then speaks, taking care not to move his face too much in the process. "Golden as your insights are, all this fussing isn't really necessary. I have argued on TV before, you know."

"To be fair, Dan, you are still quite new to all this. JB's been leading his party for ten years and people still think of him as relatively young and inexperienced."

"Only because that lisp makes him sound about eight."

"Even so, it makes the DPM a foetus by comparison. You're somewhere in the middle - you're toilet trained, but your shoes are still done up with Velcro. All I'm saying is, don't get cocky."

Sam raises her eyebrows, and just about manages to avoid saying 'it's a bit late for that' by redirecting her thoughts to her own mission for this evening. Her main concern is no longer Emma, but Ollie; his usual skill for setting aside emotional baggage in the name of political gain doesn't seem to apply here, as he revealed in his mini-meltdown earlier. Part of her is tempted to go ahead and do all the work for him, while another, more sensible part baulks at the thought of surrendering her all-important status as background noise just so Julius can play puppet-master and Ollie won't get his precious feelings hurt.

But what else can she do? They'll never make it through all three debates intact without the Tories' support, and if Steve returns to drive Ollie away, it's straight back to the bad old days of internal strife for the Labour Party. No, if Sam wants this election to go off without a hitch, she's going to have to get in up to her elbows. She only hopes it will be as painless as promised.


	15. Chapter 15

_2000 hours_

The press room is heaving, windowless, and Sam can hear strains of at least four different conversations taking place around her. One such involves Ollie and an unidentified journalist. "So you see, even though it's been nice for everyone to have a bit of light relief today, we really are at the point now when we need to leave it behind and focus on the issues..." At her side, Ralph is chatting to a blogger about how easy it is to get lost in this damn building. Ahead, a screen flashes with the first seconds of the leaders' debate: a title card in red, yellow and blue, and over the clamour David Dimbleby's voice welcoming them all to the programme.

Sam watches intently as the camera swoops down on them: black suits to either side, ties in party colours, and a yellow blouse splashed in the middle. They look very striking, standing calm and composed as Dimbleby explains the ground rules. Somewhere in another corner of the room, a chant of 'fight, fight, fight' starts up before dissolving into sniggers. Sam's mouth is dry. When the first question is pitched, Ralph tries to take her hand, so she wanders off into the crowd.

Soon she comes into hearing range of a small group grieving for, or possibly over, the Prime Minister. "It's such a shame," sighs one. "He was going to be the ticket to revival. Now look at him. More depressing than Manchester."

"When have you ever been to Manchester?"

"For my brother's funeral."

One of his companions mutters something inaudible and then repeats: "I said it wouldn't be so bad if he'd done a Thatcher. But he's not mad at all, is he? Just... sad. Really sad."

"They need two terms at the _very least_ to approach Thatcher levels of insanity."

"Huh, well, that won't stop them from giving him the same treatment."

"Do you think? I heard he was going to try stepping down with dignity."

"He'd better hurry up, then. Emma's itching to give him the push. I reckon she'll want Mary as her candidate, you know, try and win back some of the Ukip bastards."

"Oh, right. Don't ask me, I'm totally out of the loop. Will Mary really stand? I'd have thought she's over all that now."

Somebody with his back to Sam sneers quietly, "You won't catch me voting for her, especially not with Emma backing her. Vicious harpies, both of them."

"Oh yeah? Who will you back, then?"

Low-quality gossip though this is, Sam's attention is snagged and she has every intention of lingering to overhear as much as possible until Ollie appears at her elbow. "There you are." He looks a little panicked, but then again he always looks a little panicked. "I wish you wouldn't go disappearing on me like this."

Sam shrugs. "Sorry, Ollie. Is everything all right? Dan hasn't forgotten his facts, has he?"

"No, no, he's doing fine. Better than we expected, in fact. Look." Ollie holds up his phone; it's one of those performance graphics, three coloured worms snaking across the screen. Sam remembers reading about this on the train; it was tried out during the 2010 debates, but this time it's being generated by a much larger sample, and broadcast online in real time. Ollie points, and she can see that Dan's worm is trailing only just behind the DPM's, while JB's trundles merrily along near the bottom of the screen.

She looks up at Ollie. "Then what's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter. Um, I've just bumped into Emma..."

"Here? Now?"

"Yes, literally just a minute ago, over there - she snuck up on me, there was nothing I could do. Anyway, I've told her that Julius isn't going to be able to make it, but she seems to think _you're_ the one to talk to about all this teamwork bullshit. What's that all about?"

Surprised, Sam replies, "Me? I don't know... I assumed you'd want me at the meeting, but I didn't say anything to -"

Then the sudden appearance of a new face cuts her short. "Oh, hello again, Ollie," smiles Emma Messinger, mobile phone held up like a sword, having elbowed her way through the throng to join them. "And Sam Cassidy, isn't it? The one who does his job for him? Lovely to meet you." Her spare hand comes up to pump Sam's genially, and she doesn't stop talking. "Look, I'm in a bit of a rush just at the moment, but we should go and find somewhere a bit quieter to chat, yeah? There's bound to be loads of empty dressing rooms just back there. We can watch the debate on my laptop. Oh..." Muttering an apology, she breaks off for a moment to stab at her phone. "Honestly, they need constant supervision. Okay, so I'll see you in a minute, yeah?"

With a smile, she hurries off again just as quickly as she arrived. Sam raises her eyebrows at Ollie, who frowns. "Maybe it's best if you don't let her out of your sight," he muses. "Text me when you find a suitable container."

"Will do."

"In the meantime, I should probably be at least as busy as that." Ollie bites his lip and stalks off, leaving Sam to scurry after Emma.


	16. Chapter 16

_2100 hours_

" I'm afraid that's all the time we have..."

"And what is more -"

"I'm sorry, Deputy Prime Minister, but we really don't have time to hear any more on this topic. Moving on..."

Sam watches in tense silence as the debate drags on. For a moment, she's distracted by a text ('Toodlepip! You're on your own from now on -JN x') before her eyes dart back to the screen, and Dan's face. After a strong start, he's since hit turbulence, and is struggling to assert himself over the DPM's impassioned onslaughts. JB is doing no better.

Under glaring light on the other side of the dressing room, Emma is shouting into her phone. "Frankly I don't give a Finnish fuck what you think at this point, Liam. They're all just distracted by the flashy populist tactics of the Yellow Brick bitch, fucking up the debate just like she fucked up all our attempts to actually govern the country. ... Well, that's the line, and it's your job to start pushing it or else I'll just bloody well replace you with someone who can! Okay? Oh, stop whining, you gigantic infant!"

Sam does her best not to overhear.

After a while, Emma hangs up with a growl and strolls over to sit down next to Sam. Leaning forward to adjust the laptop screen, she says, "Sorry about that. I seem to end up doing everything myself, most days. I'm sure you know the feeling!" Sam doesn't dare answer, but Emma doesn't seem to mind. "Ollie hasn't changed. He was always a bit of a spineless twat."

"He does his best. That's all any of us can do." Sam glances from the screen to Emma and back again, mumbling, "Although sometimes - sometimes I wouldn't mind someone giving him a good slap about the face."

"I'll come round and do that for you any day of the week," offers Emma cheerfully. "What about today, yeah? That whole 'Dan is a man' bullshit? It must have been a nightmare for you guys. I haven't laughed so much since Hugh Abbot did _Strictly._ "

With a shrug, Sam admits, "I did warn them. The internet isn't a force to be trifled with."

"Yeah, yeah. Peter always used to say looking yourself up online was like opening a door to a room full of people all telling you how shit you are. I think he pretty much hit the nail on the head."

_This was when he was your boss, and not the other way around, then,_ thinks Sam. _Before you stirred up that poor dead nurse's ex-wife against him, when Malcolm had already been made to take the fall, and then finally sacked him to draw attention away from the leader you're about to ditch._ She smiles. "I think he probably did. You can't lay all the blame on the public, though - nobody likes being spoken down to. It's the press that's been less than helpful."

"Ugh, tell me about it. When are they anything but?" Emma grins knowingly at her, then gestures at the screen. "Anyway, what do you think of this rabble? Is there anything we can do to sort them out?"

"I, uh..." Sam isn't equipped for this; she's reluctant to put herself on the front line. But she has to keep Emma sweet for as long as possible, lest she turn sour and wreak some serious damage. Where the hell is Ollie when he's needed? "I'm sure we can arrange something. Dan seems to have a real problem making himself heard - JB could almost certainly help to remedy that, with a bit of planning."

"Great, yeah. That's exactly the sort of thing we want to be helping you with. I mean," Emma snorts, "he's not useful for much else, so we may as well make the most of him while he's around."

Anything to avoid doing Ollie's job for him. Sam can't help herself. "I heard you were planning on backing Mary Drake as his successor..?"

Gaping at her, Emma replies, "Mary? From the Home Office?"

"To, you know, tempt your errant right-wingers back into the fold."

"Good grief, and they told me you were pretty clued-up. JB's been hoist for not being close enough to the centre and you expect us to lurch to the right? No, I've had my eye on Andy Finnemore for a while. Nice guy - massive posh boy, but he's got the common touch. One of JB's oldest friends, so hopefully it'll be a civilised handover." Emma doesn't seem too worried as she adds, "Although if not, I honestly don't expect JB will be able to put up much of a fight all by himself."

Sam nods. She can see the reasoning. Mary's widely regarded as the sort of alpha female Emma aspires to be - it would never work out between them. Finnemore is supposed to be pretty weak-minded: much closer to Emma's idea of a good boss. "If you're so resigned to losing the election and ditching JB, why bother to negotiate with us?" Sam wonders, one part curious and two parts desperate to keep her talking.

"So that you'll owe me a massive favour, obviously. And to get one over on that dreadful goody-goody DPM. She has made the last two years a nightmare. Trust me," Emma looks Sam straight in the eyes, "you don't know pain until you've tried to maintain a government around two stroppy politicians who've declared war on each other."

"And your point is?" laughs Sam. "I was around when Tom was trying to get his hands on the premiership, remember. For _six years._ "

With a smirk, Emma concedes, "All right, you win. Just. Anyway, now you can help me get my revenge. What was that you were saying about helping Dan get his voice heard?"

All at once, Sam's nerves are back. She hops to her feet, pulling up her phone in self-defence. "Do you mind if I just call Ollie? I really do think you should discuss this with him... I'm just, you know, I'm just his assistant, I'm not even supposed to..."

Although Emma looks taken aback, she shrugs. "Go ahead."

Grateful, Sam taps her screen. Relief floods through her when Ollie answers his phone after just a couple of rings. "Hello?"

"Hi, it's me. Emma and I have found somewhere to talk. I know you're very busy propagating your excuses, but would you maybe like to join us? Like, now?"

He sounds not a bit reluctant. "Oh. Right. Now?"

"That is what I envisaged..."

There's a sigh from the other end of the line. "Yes, yes, all right. Where are you?"

"Remember where I saw you before? From there you should be able to see a sign for the toilets. Go past them and take the first right, we're in one of the dressing rooms." Sam hangs up and turns back around, only to catch Emma watching her, unabashed. "He's on his way."

"Good." Emma leans back and smiles, eyes still fixed on Sam. "Have you always been so concerned about overstepping your brief?"

"Well, I. Um. It's not such a big deal any more. My salary used to come from public money, you see. No party business allowed."

"Yeah, but so did Malcolm Tucker's, and that didn't stop him."

"Yes, well, maybe I didn't approve," says Sam flatly. "Maybe I think people should stick to doing the jobs they're paid to do, and do them well, and not let anyone else manipulate them into taking on more than they can handle."

There's a pause before, sounding more reproachful than actually apologetic, Emma says, "Sorry."

"It's not your fault."

All at once the dressing room door, left propped open with a chair, swings dramatically inwards and Ollie materialises. His face is set against all imaginable horrors. "Here you are, the backroom girls. Did I interrupt you comparing strap-on sizes? Plotting how you're going to run the world when you've successfully killed off all the men with neurotoxins and scented soap?"

"Shut the fuck up, Ollie. Take a seat." Ollie does so, trying without success to disguise his discomfort. Sam moves up to sit beside him and flashes him a small, brave smile, which he returns in silence. Emma takes out a pad of paper and slaps it down on the table in front of her laptop, before heading the first page 'the ways of Team Fuck' and underlining it twice. "Right," she snaps, "let's get this over with."


	17. Chapter 17

_2200 hours_

Sam leans on the side of the vending machine, massaging her eye sockets as Ollie retrieves his crisps. She's glad he's eating something, but just barely. She hasn't the energy left to feel anything with any real strength.

"It went well," says Ollie, straightening up and turning to Dan. They both look and sound a tad spaced out. "Better than expected. Julius was right, she was very keen to strike up a deal. Very keen."

"I expect Sam buttered her up," Dan smirks in her general direction. Sam only shrugs. "Anyway, that's great, and you can take me over what you agreed tomorrow. Right now I want to hear about how I did in the debate."

Ollie groans. "We went over that already. Strong start, patchy follow-up, possibly too self-righteous and not good enough at talking past the others."

"For fuck's sake, I did my best!"

"I'm not critiquing your performance, Dan! I'm relaying the audience feedback! Don't shoot the bloody messenger!"

As they begin to argue, Sam feels her phone start to vibrate in her pocket. She pulls it out and is unsurprised by the caller ID. Turning away from Dan and Ollie slightly to hide in the shadow of the vending machine, she takes the call. "Hello, Julius."

Julius _wouldn't_ sound tired, would he. "Evening, Samantha. How did it go with Team JB? Any snags?"

"Not really. Ollie and Emma sort of hate each other, but I managed to get them to work together okay."

His voice swells with pleasure. "Excellent work. Truly excellent. And young Oliver stuck to my plan throughout, yes?"

"I guess so."

"That's very reassuring. I like to know I can trust my colleagues in government." Julius smiles. "Oh, I am looking forward to having a nice big office of my own again. And what about you, Samantha? Did you do as I asked?"

"Yes, I tried to put Emma at ease." _At the expense of my own nerves,_ she adds privately. "She seems to like me for some reason."

"Oh? Did she tell you anything of interest?"

Sam tries to focus her brain, and struggles. "Um, just that Andy Finnemore is looking like a pretty likely successor to JB."

At this, Julius sounds almost alarmed. "Really? Finnemore? Oh dear, that is a good move. I was wondering if they wouldn't, ah, _benefit_ from a shift to the right. Drake, for instance."

"I think she just wants him as a replacement JB, without all the baggage, as it were..."

For a moment Julius doesn't reply; all she can hear is a vague bumping and scratching in the background, as if he were writing something down. Then he returns, seemingly back to his old unfazed self. "Well, thank you very much for that information, and for helping the evening go so smoothly. I think if Dan and the PM taught us anything tonight, it's that they both need a big helping hand."

"Yeah, I guess so. Goodnight, Julius." She hangs up.

In front of the vending machine, Ollie and Dan are still bickering, though with an exhausted sluggishness. All that's keeping them going is caffeine and self-righteousness. Sam checks her watch; it's not even that late, but the day's events have taken their toll. She lets her head rest on the machine's side and thinks of her bed.


	18. Chapter 18

_2300 hours_

When Sam lets herself in, she is greeted at once by her cat, weaving between her legs in a demand for food. Since she won't be any good to provide it if she trips over him and breaks her arm, she scoops him up off the carpet and carries him to the kitchen.

As she slits open a fresh packet of cat food, she wonders if it's appropriate to feel self-satisfied. Interest in the Twitter blunder seems to have died down since Ollie issued that statement, both online and in the press. She hasn't heard a peep out of Steve all evening. And she played her part with Emma - played it well, given the circumstances, she hopes.

That meeting was a funny one. Emma was more human than she'd been in Sam's memory. Maybe speaking as equals helped, or maybe it was simply that she had something Emma needed. Sam puts it from her mind, leaning back on the fridge as her cat digs in.

"You're going to bankrupt me," she warns, watching him eat. "You've got such an appetite. Ollie ought to take a leaf out of your book." She reflects that his poor diet is probably why his brain doesn't quite work most of the time.

Sam's main priority is sleep, but she's not so drained as to go to bed as she is. Having carelessly draped her clothes over the end of her bed, she ambles into the bathroom to remove her makeup and brush her teeth. She's just started to scrub when the noise of her phone from her bedroom makes her hurry back, inwardly groaning. "Hello?" she demands, wiping toothpaste foam from her mouth.

"Hey, Sam, Ollie here. Just to say - have you heard this furore that's just blown up?"

"No, I'm getting ready for bed. What furore?"

"About Andrew Finnemore planning to stand for leader after JB goes to the chop?"

Sam is certain she can feel her body temperature drop. "Oh. That furore."

"So you have heard it. I don't know where it started, but pretty much everyone is suddenly talking about him as a potential usurper."

"I don't suppose you've heard anything official?"

"No, but I wouldn't be surprised if it turns out to have legs. He's quite popular in the party for some reason; he must give good head 'cause it isn't his brain, that's for sure. Anyway, whoever's put it about definitely chose their moment to undermine JB. Unless Andy comes out first thing tomorrow and denies it outright, he's putting himself in a pretty tight spot."

"Mmm. It would be very bad form to actively let people think he's after the job this early on, but on the other hand..."

"On the other hand, he probably _was_ planning to stand, and now he's going to have to rule himself out." Ollie sounds suspicious, adding, "I wonder if this was something to do with Emma. She can be really sneaky like that."

With a sigh, Sam says, "Will he definitely rule himself out?"

"I don't know - he's a bit of an idiot. So maybe he'll say 'screw it' and just launch a leadership campaign on the spot. Stranger things have happened, and JB can't exactly do anything about it now."

"Hmm. I should think he has at least one person advising him who's smart enough not to let it happen." _And I know exactly who she is._ "Anyway, Ollie, it's late. We'll just have to wait and see how it turns out."

"Yeah, I guess so. Night, Sam."

"Goodnight, Ollie. See you tomorrow at the debate debrief." She hangs up.

Sitting on her bed with phone in one hand and toothbrush in the other, Sam stares into space. She should have suspected something like this: final proof that Julius is going power-mad. And he's not even _in_ power, yet. She shudders. Malcolm wouldn't have stood for this. He would have reminded her to keep her mouth shut.

He would... what would he do? What should _she_ do? Can she afford to follow her own advice and stick within the boundaries of her own job title, or has she already broken them beyond repair?

She slips backwards onto the bed, already fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it this far! Please do let me know what you think.


End file.
